


Grains of Sand

by Owlship



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-04 10:49:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17897039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Owlship/pseuds/Owlship
Summary: Dumping place for my short tumblr fics that don't deserve to be posted by themselves. Will be marked complete, since every story is a stand-alone, but will be added to periodically.(Individual summaries inside)





	1. Max's Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: Max lends Furiosa his jacket  
> Chapter 2: Modern AU, Max and Furiosa propose to each other  
> Chapter 3: Furiosa and Max sign to each other from different Citadel spires  
> Chapter 4: Modern AU: Furiosa is a handywoman fixing up Max's apartment  
> Chapter 5: Role Reversal AU  
> Chapter 6: Max brings news of a waterfall  
> Chapter 7: Furiosa finds out Max isn't as dead as rumors would suggest  
> Chapter 8: Max is a selkie  
> Chapter 9: Furiosa gives Max a scarf, and also emotions  
> Chapter 10: TRIGGER WARNING! Max and Furiosa roleplay a rape scene

"Here," Max grunts, and thrusts something into her face. It takes her a moment to even parse what the dark shape is, let alone how to respond.

Furiosa looks from the dangling bundle of his jacket to his face, but takes it from his hands willingly enough. "Thanks," she says, and slings the jacket over her shoulders without slipping her arms through the sleeves. The leather of it is heavy, soft in some places and stiffened in others, and it smells like Max, sweat and dust and all the other things you’d expect to find ground into someone's clothes.

He grunts again in answer, shoulders rolling back. His own shirt isn’t much thicker than hers but it covers more of him, and he always seems to run warm anyway.

Furiosa tugs the front of the jacket around to her middle, worn and broken metal teeth the only part of it that’s remotely cold. His body heat is trapped inside it, and she can feel the way it's molded to his body over long days of wear, where it fits on her and where it doesn't. She forgets sometimes that for all they’re the same height he’s built differently, heavier; his jacket is large all around her, shoulder-seams sagging over her upper arms.

She surreptitiously looks away from the open wastes she’s supposed to be keeping an eye on to take in his expression instead; Max is looking out, scanning the horizon, but his body is angled in towards her.

She takes another breath of his scent rising off the leather and smiles.


	2. AU: Proposal

The mid-morning sunlight is muted by curtains, sweat still drying on their skin when Furiosa rolls over on the mattress to face him and says, "We should get married."

Max blinks.

"We could use the tax break, anyway," she says. Her hand moves to rest on his chest, drawing idle shapes.

He clears his throat but has nothing in the way of words. They’ve been living together for long enough now that it’s not as if he hasn’t thought about marrying her- he has, more than he ever thought he would again- it’s that, well, he figured there were more compelling reasons than _taxes_.

"You could get on my insurance," she says next, her voice rising at the end to suggest a question. Her eyes aren’t focused on his face anymore.

Max abruptly rolls off the bed, bare feet slapping against the floor as he makes his way to his dresser.

"Hey, calm down,” she says as he rummages around the drawer. "It was just a thought."

He ignores Furiosa for the moment, until he finds the small box he’d stashed there a while ago. Then he turns around to face her again, and holds it out for her to see.

She flicks her eyes from the box to his face, her expression turning from confusion to dawning understanding. "Is that...?"

He shrugs, even though it’s really more of a 'yes or no' question. She holds out her hand and he puts the box into it, letting her open it herself.

The ring is simple, just a band of durable titanium without any stones or raised surfaces to catch and scratch. Max clears his throat again. "I just," he says, "We haven’t talked about it, but."

"This _was_ us talking about it," she says, half a smile on her face. She doesn’t set down the box, but neither does she take the ring out to look at closer. He’d had to guess what size to get it in; it’s not like she normally wears jewelry for him to use as a template.

He licks his lips and shrugs again. "You asked, so."

Furiosa huffs an amused breath and sets the box down on the nightstand. "Get over here," she says. he glances at the box; abandoned, or just set aside for the moment? But walks back to the edge of the mattress. She reaches up for the back of his neck, and he leans down. "We’re going to keep talking about this," she says, and presses her lips against his in a searing kiss. "Later."

He hums an agreement and climbs back into bed with her.


	3. Signing

She can just about make out Max perched in another watch spot on the other spire, squinting through his own pair of binoculars. She _should_ be paying strict attention to the wastes, but things are calm and clear enough that she isn’t truly worried about getting caught off-guard.

His head turns, like he can feel her gaze from this far away, and then he’s pointing a finger directly at her. Caught in the act, Furiosa thinks with a curl of warmth that has nothing to do with the midday sun.

She flashes an 'okay' sign at him, and he responds with a thumb’s up. There’s too much distance and the shadows are in the wrong place to really see his expression, but she can easily imagine the smile tugging at his lips. Max makes another sign, hand fluttering through the air, and she frowns in concentration as she tries to recall the translation.

Something about the heat, she thinks. Rather than attempt a sign back Furiosa just lifts up the canteen set next to her to remind him to drink.

He waves vaguely and then sets his binoculars to hanging from their cord around their neck, rummaging around for his own water bottle. She opens her canteen and drinks just enough to wet her throat, the water warm and metallic. When she glances through the spyglass again Max is still turned her way.

He moves his hands through a gesture she doesn’t understand, and she shakes her head. He looks away from her, and she quickly snaps her attention to the horizon in case they’re missing something with their goofing off- but the sand is as undisturbed as ever, and she looks back a moment later.

His hand rubs over his chest briefly, and she doesn’t know if that’s meant to be a sign or if it’s just something he’s doing. If she lifts her eyes off him Furiosa can see someone approaching through the garden, and she tenses until she recognizes Dag’s bright scarf. She taps her ear to warn him to listen before he’s taken by surprise, but she doesn’t think the message gets through because a moment later Dag is close enough that she might be saying something, and Max jumps in place.

She smiles to herself and turns away from the scene, back to the wasteland.


	4. AU: Contractor

He thinks she’s an intruder at first, albeit an especially noisy one. Then the metal box spilling tools out across his kitchen floor registers, and the body crouched in front of his kitchen sink, and he’s never heard of a burglar who fixes leaky sinks but there’s a first time for everything.

"Who’re you?" he asks, coming to stand in the doorway. His place is small, cramped; his shoulders fill the space almost entirely.

The woman puts down the pipewrench in her non-metal hand calmly and picks up what looks like a ruler, maybe? He doesn’t know anything about what tools are used for plumbing. She twists at the waist to look at him, and her eyes are brighter green than they have any right to be in his dim lighting. "Your landlord called me," she says, which isn’t really an answer to his question.

Still, it’s enough for him to relax his fists. He _had_ complained to the slumlord running this place when handing over his last rent check, something about him using a sledgehammer to get the pipes to stop dripping. He’d settled on duct tape for the duration.

"You a plumber?" Max says. she’s turned back to the sink and is doing something he can’t see with the pipes; what he _can_ see is her shapely rear end, about as far from his mental image of 'plumber' as possible.

"Handywoman," she replies, voice slightly muffled. She ducks back out from under the sink and looks at him again. Her eyes flick over him and he becomes uncomfortably aware of the fact that he last showered... a while ago, that he’s wearing one of the ratty shirts he uses to work in the garage. "Anything else need fixing?"

She stands up, unfolding long legs and revealing herself to be the type that could probably walk onto a model shoot and not look out of place, even with her buzzed hair and half-metal arm. Max resists the urge to scratch himself everywhere he’s suddenly itchy.

She raises her eyebrows when he doesn’t reply, and turns to the sink. The knob turns smoothly, water gushing out of the faucet and then cutting off just as readily. There’s no residual dripping, no weird gurgling as the water drains away.

"Fan in the bathroom’s been out," he says. It’s been out since he moved in, actually, but if she’s here...

"I can fix that,”"she says, and starts gathering up the tools spread across his floor. Max thinks about helping her but figures he’d be in the way; he knows he hates when people mess up his stuff when he’s working on a project.

Unfortunately he has the revelation that to fix something inside his bathroom she has to go inside his bathroom, and he winces as he leads her down the hallway.

"I, um," he starts to say, but can’t really follow it up with anything. His place isn’t _unsanitary_ or anything but it’s not really guest-ready, handymen- women, whichever- included.

She leans in close around him, sticking her head past his shoulder to peer into the bathroom. She’s close enough that she brushes against his arm, close enough that he can smell the soap and sweat on her skin.

"I might have to get into the drywall," she says, apparently unfazed by the general grime and clutter.

He grunt in answer, and steps aside to let her through. He’s gonna need to go get cleaned up and changed if he has to deal with this woman in his house, and so after a moment of awkward hovering while he watches her start to unscrew the cover grate on the exhaust fan he starts for his bedroom.

The realization that he’s just effectively locked himself out of the only bathroom in his apartment doesn’t hit him until he’s stripped out of his dirty shirt and has a clean one in his hands. Max looks at his door, through which his can hear her working- there’s a muted bang, and a quiet curse that should have him worried probably- and sighs. At least he can rinse off in the kitchen sink now, he supposes.


	5. Role Reversal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [Youkaiyume's art](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/160953410238/well-this-was-fun-for-these-prompts)!

He only realizes that the bloodbag is female when he gets it- _her_ \- pinned underneath him. She’s held fast by his body weight, one of his hands pushing her snarling face into the dirt and the other grabbing the one intact wrist she has, but she’s still resisting and it’s the tense squirming of her body against his that clues him in to her sex. Not that it matters; the Organic must have his reasons for placing her among the bloodbags rather than anywhere he’d usually expect a woman to end up.

"Easy," Max says in the tone he uses for animals, assuming it will do her no good. She’s clearly been out in the wastes for too long, gone too feral, for things like soothing words to have any impact.

The others are still a distance away, walking leisurely towards him. The fight was too quick to have drawn any spectators, not that anyone cares much about an Imperator subduing a runaway feral.

"Let me go," she says, voice surprisingly clear for someone who’s been growling and choking on sand. She’s quivering under him, rage or fear or animal instinct too deep for either name. "Get _off_."

He squeezes his hand on the back of her neck gently like it’s meant to be a reassurance. Her brand is still fresh, still weeping rather than scarred over.

Max doesn’t bother answering her pleas for freedom. He learned long ago that once the citadel has you, it keeps you.


	6. Show and Tell

Max returns in a cloud of dust, shedding the wasteland behind him. Furiosa greets him as soon as the lift docks into the platform, pressing her forehead to his skin and knotting her fingers into the tangle of hair he’s let grow in is absence.

He breathes her in, pressing back just as hard, hand cupped around the back of her neck like she might break.

"I, mhm," he mumbles, voice full of grit. "Something... you..."

Furiosa disentangles herself reluctantly, contact sliding away. He isn’t wild-eyed with a panicked warning of danger which means he’ll want water to drink, and hopefully to wash up in, and then if he isn’t hiding any injuries they can talk over a plate in the mess hall. She leads him with a light touch on his arm and he follows, silent.

When he’s watered and had his beard shaved back he looks more like the Max she’s grown familiar with, less like a twitchy feral on the edge of running away or fear-biting. She gestures to the mess hall attendant to let him be when Max grabs more than the usual share of food, and takes a plate for herself though it’s earlier than she usually eats her evening meal.

"I found something," Max says with his mouth half-full, body tilting towards hers on the bench. He glances off to the side, eyeing up anyone who might be listening in, or else come to steal his food- though neither is very likely here.

"Something we can use?" she asks, and picks at her meal with hardly more delicacy than he’s displaying.

"Mmm," he hums, and shoves his fork into his mouth to free up his hands, patting down his pockets. He comes up with a familiar bit of cloth, and unfolds it in the narrow space between their plates. "There," he says once he’s taken the fork out of his mouth again, and taps a finger at one of the symbols he’s drawn.

Furiosa is familiar with his map by now, but this is a symbol she’s never seen before "What is it?" she asks, leaning in to see it better, body brushing against his from shoulder to thigh.

He lifts a hand up in the air and flutters his fingers as he draws it back down, concentration on his face as he searches for the right words. "It's water," he says, "Clean, mhm. Falling... Water fall? It’s..." He trails off, and shakes his head. "Need to see it."

"Water falling..." she says, feeling out the idea he’s trying to get across. Anything to do with clean water instantly has her full attention, no matter that they have water to spare here. "Like the outflow pipes?"

Max pauses, considering, and nods his head. "But it’s not pipes. It’s... just flowing. From the rocks."

She leans back from him again, and spears another mouthful of greens on her fork to mull over his words. She knows that water used to flow just out in the open, rather than needing to be pumped up from deep underground, but she thought that all died out when the water wars happened.

Furiosa gingerly taps the map with a metal finger, careful not to snag the fabric. "It’s by the Broken Hills?"

He hums, and traces a pathway around his drawn symbols. "Four, five days of driving. The fall’s hidden, so far. It’s..." He trails off, expression going a little bit dreamy to make her wonder if he’s being interrupted internally. "You need to see it," he finishes.

There’s always a thousand things for her to be doing at any given moment in time, and scouting is low on the list of her priorities. But here Max is, bringing this discovery not to the council but to her first, looking at her with an eager expression on his face.

"I’d love to," she says, and he smiles.


	7. Presumed Dead

Max has gotten used to the lift being already on the ground for him when he approaches the citadel, ready to take him and his car up to the heights. He’s surprised, then, when he doesn’t even manage to get close enough to see the base clearly before a handful of vehicles swarm out of the towers and around him.

He hasn’t heard even a single rumor of anything happening to the Citadel, nothing about mutiny or invaders or Furiosa and the girls being anything but safe and sound, but the unusual greeting has him on high alert. He keeps the engine idling and fingers the safety of the pistol he has strapped to his thigh, ready for things to turn south.

One bike outstrips the rest, and he relaxes when he recognizes Furiosa’s distinctive form riding high, flipping the safety back on.

"Out of the car!" she barks, hardly looking in his direction. There’s a gun in her hand, held between fingers and handlebar, and she turns it on him. "Out, scav."

Max blinks to himself and wonders what he’s done to earn himself that tone, devoid of anything but a cold fury. He opens the door to the Interceptor and slowly eases himself out, hands held open just in case she thinks he’s a threat.

Her expression morphs from one of anger to shock, gun lowering away from him like it’s suddenly too heavy for her to hold up. "Max?"

He hums, still keeping his hands up, unsure what’s going on.

Furiosa doesn’t bother to put up the kickstand on her bike, she just climbs off and lets it fall to the sand. In three long strides she’s right in front of him and then she’s grabbing onto him with strong arms, holding him tight.

He stands still for a moment in surprise before returning the embrace, albeit less fiercely. He hasn’t been gone so very long- it’s hard to be sure, but he’s only needed to shave twice and his hair isn’t so bad, so it couldn’t have been a terribly long time- so he doesn’t know why she acted like she didn’t know it was his car, why she’s so surprised to see him.

"Hm?" he hums, throat too parched to manage words.

"You asshole," she says, words breathed against the skin of his neck where she’s tucked her face. She tightens her hands against him and then abruptly lets go, shoving herself away. "You were fine this entire time."

Max frowns to himself, but nods. He’d run into some trouble a ways back, but he’d gotten out of the scrape mostly intact.

She nods to herself and turns away, as if suddenly realizing they have an audience of War Boys looking bored that there won’t be any war. "Head back," she calls to them.

"Things okay, boss?" a War Boy that Max only dimly recognizes asks, head and shoulders poking out of a sunroof.

"Fine," she replies, and turns away again dismissively. She studies Max for a moment in silence, during which he fidgets and realizes-

"That’s my jacket."

Furiosa squares up her shoulders inside the worn leather, like she’d forgotten she was wearing it and feels defensive of the fact. "Yeah," she says, "It is."

"Got stolen," he says, which he figures is probably self-evident by the fact that she’s wearing it instead of him. he’d had a hell of a time just getting his car back, he’d been starting to accept that his jacket may have been gone for good. he doesn’t know how it ended up in her possession but he’s glad it did

"We thought you were _dead_ ," she says, eyes burning into him.

Max blinks as this thought registers, and then sheepishly scratches at his chin. "Hm, no?" He’d gotten into a pretty decent tussle or two, and then there were the thefts, but he didn’t even get any major wounds this time around.

She looks like she wants to say something, but she only nods, and reaches down to grab for the handlebars of her fallen bike. Her hand slip and he takes a step forward to help her, but her expression sets him back onto his heels again.

" _I_ thought you were dead," she says, voice low and deadly.

Oh. He reaches out a hand tentatively and lays it on the bare skin revealed by the shortened sleeve of his jacket. She doesn’t flinch away from the touch, which he counts in his favor. "I'm sorry," he says, which is almost laughably inadequate but is the best he can come up with at the moment.

Furiosa nods her head, sharp, and gets her bike back upright. "Follow me to the lift," she says. "I'll give you your jacket back."


	8. Selkie!Max

"That's my jacket," the feral growls, but doesn't make any move to snatch the thing off the War Boy's back.

Furiosa dismisses the interaction until much later, when it's night and the War Boy has found them again, this time as an ally rather than a threat. The feral is eyeing him up with undisguised longing in tiny snatches, and she has a feeling it has nothing to do with the boy himself.

"Nux," she says, startling him away from where he was exchanging quiet words with a sleepy Capable. "Give me that jacket." Jacket is a generous term- it's ratty leather and fur, more a cape than a true garment.

The feral in the seat next to her goes tense and wary, alarm showing in the whites of his eyes against the dark cab.

Nux pouts, but he's ensconced between the warm bodies of the former Wives- he won't miss the warmth of it for long. Furiosa holds out her hand and he places the jacket into it.

The feral twitches like he wants to reach out and grab it from her, but instead clenches his jaw and looks away.

The jacket is heavy and warm in her lap, the fur lining soft despite its worn appearance. For a moment the urge to wrap it around her own shoulders is strong, an impulse that appears out of nowhere but seems incredible appealing in the chill of the night.

"Here," she says instead. "It's yours, right?"

The feral jerks his head around to look at her, surprise widening his eyes. He opens his mouth silently and then closes it. When he lifts the jacket from her she feels a spark of static electricity jolt her fingertips, the fur crackling as it passes between their hands.

Furiosa waits for him to show any sort of thanks, but he just gathers the jacket against his chest like it's a precious artifact instead of a raggedy piece of clothing and keeps looking at her.

After a moment of this she nods, and deliberately turns away to focus on the road ahead.

"You, um," he says, shoulders finally relaxed under the new weight of fur and leather. The jacket looks better in the daytime, less like it's about to crumble into dust at any moment. It becomes him. "You didn't have to."

She regards him, unsure what he's referring to. His fingers rub against the edge of the jacket, thumb smoothing down the fur like it's a compulsion.

Furiosa shrugs. "It's yours," she says.

He hums and looks unconvinced, and she supposes that most ferals don't have their stolen items returned to them very often- at least not without a price. Still, it's just a jacket, and a particularly ratty-looking one at that.

She offers him a place with their convoy for the next day and is surprised when he turns it down, even though he's a feral and ferals are flighty and unreliable, and she should have expected his answer.

She's more surprised when he finds her in the darkest hours of the night, knuckles rapping lightly against the side of the War Rig.

Furiosa yawns and pushes herself upright, and croaks out a noise that's meant to be question and greeting in one. When he hesitates before climbing into the space she's hastily cleared for him she nods, and he pulls himself up to kneel facing her on the bench seat, back to the wasteland through the open doorway.

"I," he starts, and then shakes his head. "You don't know," he says after a moment.

She regards him, the way his body blocks out the light of the stars, the way the fur jacket of his catches glimmers of silver anyway. She doesn't know what he's talking about.

"You gave it back," he says, like this is something of vital importance.

"Your jacket?" she asks, too tired to be muddling through whatever game he's playing. "You said it was yours."

"It's not-" he says roughly, and cuts himself off. After a deep breath he repeats himself. "It's not just that." The feral looks over his shoulder nervously, but there's nothing to be seen. The camp is asleep, save for a distant guard to warn them of dangers, the night dark.

"It's seal fur," he says.

Furiosa blinks at the non sequitur and wonders if she's actually just having a vivid dream. "What's a seal?" she asks before she can stop herself. Some sort of animal, obviously, but not one she's encountered before.

He stares at her with an expression she can just about make out in the dark, one of utter disbelief. Then he's laughing, a rusty low noise that sounds like he hasn't made it in a long long time.

She crosses her arms over her chest and feels a defensive blush creeping up her skin, though she doubts he can see it. A fool of a feral like this shouldn't make her feel like the one who doesn't know what's going on, yet here she is, without the vaguest of maps for this conversation.

"They lived in the oceans," he says when he's done chuckling. "Mm, before the oceans dried up."

It doesn't tell her anything about why it matters what fur his jacket is made of, but she nods to acknowledge the piece of information shared.

"You might... might ask, in the morning," he says, turning his head away from her abruptly. She can pick out his profile like this, his deep brows, his lips, the straight line of his nose. "They would know."

Furiosa is confused, and tired, and doesn't know what he's hinting at other than that he seems to be hinting at something. "Are you going to stay to sleep?" she asks.

He looks back at her, head tilted in consideration. Finally he gives a low little grunt and ducks his chin.

She makes room for him on the seat, adjusting her position so he can slide in next to her more fully. The feral is radiating heat in the cold night and as soon as she realizes this she leans in, until there's less than a hand's width between them.

For a moment they sit like that, she wrapped in her blanket and he in his jacket, before he lays his arm out along the back of the seat. The invitation seems clear even without being spoken, and Furiosa leans the rest of the way into his space, shivering at the heat she finds. He smells like leather and salt and dust, and he breathes in long slow breaths that don't match her own rhythm at all.

When she dreams that night she dreams of swimming in a lake of endless water, a dark shape always at the edge of her vision but never a threat. It's an alien dream for several reasons and it should set her on edge, but instead she wakes with a sense of calm.


	9. Scarf Emotions

"What?" Max asks, a strange roaring that isn't the wind or a running engine filling his ears.

Furiosa ducks her head downwards for a beat, eyes cast away from him, and then lifts her chin back up out of the folds of her scarf. "I love you," she repeats, green gaze piercing, the words just as strange and terrifying as the first time he heard them out of her lips.

He stares at her for a moment, stuck in place, and then- he'll be ashamed of it later, how he bolts so suddenly. Is already ashamed, a ghostly voice berating him inside his head. The terror overpowers everything else as his wheels spin over the sand, as the hot exhaust fills his nostrils.

It's quiet out in the wasteland but Max can't shake the noise in his ears, the words tumbling over and over in his mind. She can't. Furiosa _can't_ because if she does then he has to acknowledge the feelings twisting up his own guts, and everything that Max has ever loved has died.

Night falls, eventually, and the darkness and his own human need for rest compel him to park somewhere. He tries to sleep but he dreams of a highway and roaring engines, a stale hospital room. he tries to be awake but he hears the dead heckle at him, Glory telling him of a fairytale she was young enough to believe in and the old Vuvalini advising him of how her people do things and an entire chorus of others to remind him that he doesn't deserve any of it.

Max scrubs sand out of his eyes in the morning and plans to keep driving as far away from what used to be the Citadel as he can, just like he's always planned on doing. The girls stand on their own feet entirely, and what used to be War Boys and Wretched and unmentioned are defense enough, and he hadn't brought anything truly valuable in trade or in information in years now. And Furiosa... he can't pretend that she'll be safer just because he's gone. Can't pretend that the life she leads is one where safe is even an option, with or without him hanging around, backup and curse rolled into one.

He drives, but the sun shining in his eyes and the curves of the terrain turn him around, and muscle memory he didn't know his body had causes him to take a turn at that particular rock, to steer towards that ridge, until suddenly there are three familiar spires growing on the horizon.

He takes his foot off the gas and lets the engine idle, wasting guzz and opening himself up for attack, out in the open like this. There's green spilling off the tops of the rocks and on some of the nearby cliffs, though he's too far too make any of it out yet. The patrol won't go out this far without reason but the scopes up in mouth can probably see him, and that might be reason enough.

The thought draws up a cold sweat between his shoulder blades, a waste of water now that he has water to waste.

It's not that the sentiment behind her words came out of nowhere, even as hard as he tries to ignore it. Furiosa doesn't let people in easily but she's let him in, let him into her room and her truck and her body, into her life. Max isn't oblivious to what that all means, what it means that he's been there to be welcomed inside, that he's wanted to share himself just as much with her in return.

He shouldn't be scared by words, has been sworn at and cursed and threatened with the worst things imaginable. These words, meant to be treasured, meant to be soft and kind and... And _loving_ , shouldn't be his undoing.

Max tightens his grip on the cracked leather of the steering wheel and stares at the citadel's spires, and wonders almost despite himself what Furiosa's doing right now. If she's working in the garage, or maybe up in the garden, or if she's given herself a rare day off to soak her feet and listen to one of the records Cheedo can't stop playing. If she's thinking about him, about the impact her words are having. If she's worried that he'll run and run and never return, like the ghost tugging at his elbow is urging.

She'd keep moving if he never came back, of that he's certain. She would have to, her character wouldn't allow for anything else, not like his own flighty inclinations.

Up on the top of the spire he sees a flash of light, a pinprick of reflected sunlight revealed only to be overtaken by shadow again. There's no message tapped out in silent code, but he knows that the mirrors aren't uncovered except on purpose, knows that he was meant to be made aware that he's been spotted.

Max relaxes his fingers one by one and brings his hand down to the shifter. He could turn the wheel and flee back out to the howling emptiness of the wasteland, or he could stay here until he turns into roadkill, or he could put his foot on the gas and drive to where he's already aimed, to where the green on the horizon isn't just a cruel mirage.

The lift is lowered for him almost before he gets to the base, a last chance to swerve off through the crowd and flee. He drives up carefully, eyes peeled for small ones lingering too close, and is stunned to realize that the pounding in his chest has receded to an almost-calm sensation, things blurring at the edges.

Furiosa is waiting for him when the lift docks, a deliberately casual air about her that falls flat, and any thoughts he had about giving her a speech- not that he has the slightest idea what he could possible say- fly out of his head at the sight of her.

Instead he only settles his restless gaze on her and sighs in relief as she touches her forehead to his, as if they've been apart a lot longer than a single night. He licks his lips and coughs against the dust in his throat and is in the process of trying to nod, to do _something_ , when he realizes that she's relaxed against him just as much. Furiosa's eyes open slowly but when they do they're full of if not understanding than acceptance, and he realizes that the words don't matter between them, have never mattered.

He does nod then, nose rubbing against her cheek, and manages some small noise. Her lips quirk into a faint smile and Max closes his eyes again, gives himself a moment to just stand there and breathe her in.


	10. TW: Rape

He doesn't do this. Doesn't get a woman pinned underneath his body and find himself hard and wanting. Certainly he doesn't force her kicking legs apart, settling himself in the reluctant cradle of her hips, his dick aching to feel her heat more closely.

"You won't do it, feral," Furiosa hisses, stump flailing ineffectually at his shoulder, trying to push him off with her hand trapped inside his own. "I'll feed you your schlanger and watch you bleed out."

Max squeezes his other hand around her throat until she gasps breathlessly, pale skin going red, and holds the pressure a moment too long to be comfortable.

Her voice is raw and cracked when she speaks again. "I'll kill you," she says, a promise he fully believes her capable of keeping.

He growls wordlessly and grinds his hips down against hers, eliciting the first hint of real fear in her eyes. She can feel how hard he is, can surely guess how much he can make her hurt, the ways he can get inside not just her body but her mind.

He takes his hand away from her throat and trails it down her body, palming a breast on her heaving chest for a moment, reveling in the softness he finds there. She's all muscle and iron elsewhere, but here- and lower, down where his own hardness is rubbing against her, demanding entrance- she's so soft, so feminine.

Max nips at her throat and she sinks her teeth into his ear, hard enough to have him rearing back with a shout. He takes his hand away from holding down her wrist to grab at the waistband of her pants, pulling it down harshly. Her instinctual wriggling to get away only pulls her trousers down lower on her thighs, and he's smothering her with his weight again before she can get any sort of distance between them, legs trapped open under him.

"I'll fucking kill you," Furiosa says again, breath coming in great heaves, eyes wide and staring.

He reaches down to undo the laces on his fly and groans when his erection is freed, a relief. He ruts himself against her, sliding through folds that are hot and wetter than he thinks she would like, a thought that only brings dark satisfaction to him. She doesn't want this but her body does, or maybe it's only trying to appease the victor.

Max's dick finds her entrance and he pushes inside while she yells, enraged. She's burning hot around him and so tight it's nearly painful, body turning stock-still as she accepts that she can't fight her way out.

He lets out a low, approving noise, and begins to move inside of her. Furiosa squeezes her eyes shut and he growls.

"No," he grunts, "Open. Look at me."

Her eyelids flutter and then open again, green eyes looking damp and lost. Max lowers his mouth to her neck again, lips and teeth and tongue tasting the beating pulse in her neck, and this time she only quivers and swallows, throat bobbing under his mouth.

"Good," he says into her skin. Her sweat doesn't taste any different, considering the fear he can practically smell rolling off her body.

Furiosa lets out a quiet noise, hurt and vulnerable, the nails of her fingers digging into his skin. She's no longer fighting him off, no longer angry and spitting curses under him. Her eyes aren't damp anymore but fully wet, leaking water to spill across her skin.

Max sinks into her body again and again, taking his pleasure without other considerations, until with a shout he seizes up and comes.

He all but collapses onto her, panting hard and feeling the sweat run off his skin. For a moment nothing happens, no movement to be found save for their breathing, and then he rolls off of her, moving instead to sit at her side.

"Okay?" he asks, taking in the state of her, the bruises and scratches, the tears on her face and the cum leaking out of her.

Furiosa doesn't react for a long moment, eyes shut. Her body gives a great shudder and Max thinks he's fucked up, that he missed her safeword and ruined things, but then she reaches out with her hand and grabs a hold of his shirt, curling herself up against his legs.

Max hums soothingly and carefully rubs over her upper arm, a safe enough place to touch. She sniffles and begins to tuck her face against his thigh, and he helps her up to enfold her in his arms against his chest.

"Okay?" he asks again, when it sounds like her tears are beginning to slow to a stop.

"I did kill them," Furiosa says, voice hoarse. "They didn't win."

"No one wins but you," he says, running his hand up and down the strong arch of her spine. His shirt is getting damp where her tears and snot are rubbing, something he accepts as the least of his dues.

"Damn right," she says, the bravado forced for now, though she's already settling back into her skin.

He hums in what he hopes is an encouraging way and holds her while she pieces herself back together, doing his best not to think about his own reactions to what he's done, the feral thrill of conquering, the moment where he wasn't sure if he would have stopped, had he heard the agreed-upon words. This wasn't for him, and his feelings aren't the ones that should be considered.


End file.
